For as long as I can remember, my shadow has haunted me. It stretches unnaturally long in the sun, creeping behind me, always larger than I am. Every time I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye, I feel like it’s not just following me, but chasing me, reminding me of everything I can’t escape. The fear it stirs within me is almost unbearable, a constant reminder of my own fragility. But in the quiet moments, when I sit down to pee, I find a strange peace. In that act—simple, private, and humble—I reclaim a sense of control over myself and the world around me. I’m not afraid to acknowledge that even as a man, there’s strength in vulnerability, in choosing comfort over convention. It’s a quiet rebellion, a small but powerful defiance against the shadows that try to define me. And in that, I’ve found a strange kind of pride.